


Colors of the Soul

by erinacea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, Friendship/Love, Gen, Healing, Illnesses, Original Character(s), Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: When it comes to treating injured angels, the rules are simple: The presence of angels will aid the healing process, whereas the presence of demons can only cause harm.But is that true for all angels? Or all demons, for that matter?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	1. The Angelic Patient

**Author's Note:**

> This story was, very loosely, inspired by the COVID-19 situation, but is not directly related.

He's alive. Even a few days ago, that had been far from certain. But, no small thanks to my expertise, he's managed to pull through. Little by little, his injuries are knitting themselves shut, his skin is regrowing, and even the last hematomata have begun to fade. Still, I'm worried. He's still too pale, and his breathing's far too shallow. Most importantly, he's yet to wake up.

Today, my patient looks almost exactly as he did yesterday. When I place a hand on his brow, his skin feels clammy. In stark contrast to my own bronze coloration, his skin and hair are both so pale that they almost blend into the white sheets and pillow. In his weakened state, his aura's hard to pick up, but when I focus my inner eye, I can make out the sickly blue light enveloping his body, his normally pristine white angels' halo dimmed to a dirty gray. As if I didn't already know that he's gravely ill.

I jot down his current temperature: 95.1 F, barely above the onset of hypothermia. Then I pick up his left hand lying slack on top of the sheets and, keeping my eyes on my wristwatch, begin counting his heartbeats.

“Good afternoon, Makawee! How's our patient doing today?”

When I whirl around, my right braid hits my cheek and nose, and I barely manage to suppress a yelp. I'd been so focused on tracking my patient's pulse that I completely failed to notice Archangel Gabriel's bright golden aura encroaching into my field of vision. But even if also overheard a knock on the door, he should have known better than to interrupt a Healer during a medical routine.

Still, Gabriel's my boss. Rising from the visitor's chair, I smooth out my skirt and paste on a professional smile. “Good afternoon, sir.” After another glance at my patient, I finally answer the question. “His physical injuries are continuing to heal nicely, but I'm afraid there's no sign of improvement as far as his soul's concerned.”

Gabriel frowns. “It's his own fault it has come to this. We really should have battled this out with Hell once and for all.”

The idea that a single angel's supposed to have stalled Armageddon is hard to believe. After all, the Apocalypse had been in the making for six thousand years, prophesied in the holiest of texts. And yet, it did get canceled at the last minute. Even more improbably, my patient's supposed to have achieved this in collaboration with one of the denizens of Hell. His third-degree burns of clearly demonic origin would seem to contradict that claim. But angels don't lie, and I have no reason to doubt the others' word on this.

I shake my head. “If the War had taken place, Heaven would have lost many bright souls, and a lot more injured angels would be occupying this ward right now.”

Gabriel claps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, I suppose you're glad to feel useful again.” Gritting my teeth, I duck out of the unwanted contact. _Useful!_ Oblivious, he continues, “Of course your skills would have been even more valuable in the War.”

I purse my lips in disapproval. As if my professional pride would extend as far as wishing misfortune upon my fellow angels just to have something to do. But I prefer to choose my battles where they matter, and there's another topic I've been meaning to broach. My eyes flick in the direction of my patient. “I may need to visit Earth to collect some of his belongings.” While I don't actually need Gabriel's permission, this is hardly an unreasonable request, and keeping my boss in the loop might earn me the goodwill I may need to cash in at some point.

A furrow appears on Gabriel's brow. “What could he possibly lack that Heaven can't provide?”

“I'm worried about his soul.” I catch myself lowering my voice as if there was any chance my patient could hear us. “I'm hoping to find some objects of personal importance that may help anchor his soul to his body.”

The Archangel shrugs. “With the company he's been keeping, it's no wonder his soul's struggling. He never should have meddled with demons in the first place.”

Contrary to his outwardly caring attitude, Gabriel has spent most of his bedside visits complaining about the Heavenly council's decision to allow a renegade angel back into the fold. Of course I'm only a stand-in; the real target of his disapproval happens to be unconscious. Once again, I shake my head. “I'm a Healer. I don't think like that.”

Exasperated, Gabriel throws up his hands. “Well, if you must. He's got a bookshop in Soho, London. _A.Z. Fell's._ ” He wrinkles his nose. “Messy place, Earth, if you ask me.”

Taking a slow breath, I force myself to count to three. I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by that. After all, he's hardly the only angel to keep forgetting that, not too long ago, I used to be human, too. Though it takes a bit of effort, I give a gracious nod. “Thank you.”

~ * ~ * ~

Compared to Heaven's eternal brightness, I suppose London does seem rather dreary, but sometimes I miss the cooler, earthy colors that are so hard to find in Heaven. Unexpectedly, I find myself appreciating my patient's decision, so very unusual for an angel, to settle down in the human world.

Though I've never visited London before, I'm used to the big cities on the other side of the Atlantic, and I know how to recognize the locals by the sure way they move about the place. Once I reach Soho, everyone I ask remembers my patient's bookshop and can at least point me in the general direction. Apparently it's been around “forever”.

Under cover of darkness, I finally unlock the front door and slip inside. Right away, my nose is filled with the musty, leathery smell of old books. The tinkling of a door bell announces my arrival, and I shush it with a gesture. I take a moment to turn the door sign back to _“Closed”_ and secure the door behind me. Then I turn around to inspect the interior.

And freeze.

A pair of baleful yellow eyes is glaring at me out of the darkness. Their vertically slit pupils bring to mind prehistoric predators long gone extinct. My own eyes go wide as I stumble back against the door, fumbling for the handle, as a primal instinct urges me to flee. Now that I'm paying attention, it's impossible to miss the muddy red aura outlining the shape of a tall male figure standing in the middle of the room. _Murky red means danger!_ A scream builds up in my throat, but it's muffled by a hand pressed against my mouth. It takes me a moment to realize it's my own.

Never taking his eyes off me, not even to blink, the demon snaps his fingers. Instantly, Hellfire erupts on his finger tips, accompanied by the stench of burning finger nails. The flame illuminates his bared teeth and the dark circles around his eyes, both framed by stringy red hair. The rest of him, clad in black, still blends into the shadows. “Fuck off,” he growls. In the silent room, the low tones reverberate eerily.

 _Stupid_ , I chide myself. _Stupid!_ How could I have been so careless? I knew that demons have been attacking angels, and yet I didn't even think of bringing backup when visiting their victim's home. And why did I have to lock the door behind me? Propriety's not _that_ important.

The one bright spot in this situation is that I'm fairly sure he's alone. At least, I can't detect any other auras nearby except for my own, its rainbow stripes now overlaid with muddy blue. _Can demons smell fear?_ Luckily, he seems almost as surprised to see me as the other way around. I suppose that's why he hasn't attacked yet. I force myself to take a deep, even breath, trying to calm my racing heart, mentally preparing myself for battle. In fair combat, my small build would be no match against his taller, more muscular frame, and I'll definitely need to avoid that Hellfire, but I'm hardly an easy target, either. _I'm a Healer, I know how to hurt someone._ Making sure to keep my eyes on him, I sink into a defensive crouch. Still, I hesitate to attack first - the eternal downside of being on the side of Good.

He stares at me with narrowed eyes. “You're an angel. What are you doing here?”

 _Excuse me? “_ I should be asking that question. This is an angel's home.”

“I know.” He smirks. “I assure you I have every right to be here.” Of course I'd expect a demon to lie whenever it suits him, but the complete lack of dark pink in his aura gives me pause. He really believes what he's saying, even though that doesn't make any sense.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Right. Because you _attacked_ the owner.”

Something like a pained grimace flickers across his face. “What? No!” He curls his lips. “I was the one who called you guys for help.”

That seems unlikely. And yet... The angels who had left my mangled patient in my care had mentioned that a demon had been hovering around him, almost protectively. I had been too busy saving his life to pay much heed to their gossip, but I'd assumed they'd meant the protectiveness a beast of prey would show when defending its slain quarry. And I'd been similarly skeptical of the stories about my patient's supposed demonic accomplice in preventing Armageddon. Judging by Gabriel's dark comments, my patient might even be considering this demon a friend. Frankly, all of this sounds ridiculous. But it would explain why this demon, despite every opportunity, still hasn't launched an attack. And now that I think of it, those dirty blue spots in his aura could very well be signs of worry.

Relaxing my stance, I cut right to the chase. “Are you Aziraphale's friend?”

He eyes me cautiously. “That depends on who's asking.”

If we're to have a proper conversation, I'd like to see who I'm talking to. I snap my fingers, causing various lamps in the room to flare into brightness. Instantly, the demon's pupils contract into narrow slits. Swearing, he shields his eyes against the sudden glare. His burst of Hellfire flickers out, taking its infernal stench with it. However, other than snarl, he makes no attempt to lash out at me.

 _Right. Demons are nocturnal beings._ Taking pity on him, I dim the lights down to a soft glow. “Um, sorry about that.”

Lowering his hand, he glares at me. “Fuck. Was that necessary?” A faint hiss accompanies each sibilant.

“Look, I said I'm sorry.” My smile falters under the onslaught of his glare. “Anyway, my name's Makawee. I'm one of Heaven's Healers and currently in charge of Aziraphale's recovery.”

His eyes widening, he takes two long strides towards me. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“He's, um -” How can I explain the situation to someone who might potentially react violently to bad news? “- recovering, though not as fast as I'd like.” _That's true, of a sort._

“Has he asked about me?”

My eyes dart across the room, and I catch myself tugging on the end of one of my braids. “He, uh...” The demon's widened eyes are trained on my face, his entire body the epitome of tension. And somehow, I just can't bring myself to lie. I sigh. “In all honesty, he hasn't regained consciousness yet.” A shadow passes over his face, and I hasten to give my visit a positive spin. “That's actually why I'm here. I was hoping some personal effects might speed up his recovery.”

The demon glowers. “He should be here, in his home.”

I raise my chin. “He might _live_ here, but an angel's true home will always be Heaven.” My hands fold themselves into an automatic gesture that, judging by the twitch under his eyes, appears to get on his nerves. “The Almighty's proximity will help your friend heal.”

“Yeah. Because that's worked so well so far...” He's not even trying to keep down his mutter.

“Patience is a virtue,” I point out primly. Not that he'd know anything about virtues.

He sets his jaw. “I want to see him.”

 _What an absurd idea!_ But of course this is hardly the first time I'm being confronted by a patient's anxious next-of-kin. Though I never expected to have this particular discussion with a _demon_ , I strive to remain professional. “I'm afraid that's impossible. He'll continue to recuperate in Heaven.”

“But he should be _home,_ ” he whines. The words _“with me”_ hang in the air.

“As his Healer, I'm telling you that's out of the question.”

“ _Why?_ Because I'm a demon?” His eyes flash, and he takes another threatening step forward, now towering over me. I recoil from the noxious fumes wafting into my face. Based on his clear enunciation and fluid movements, I wouldn't have guessed he's been drinking. At least he had the sense to sober up before engaging with me.

His aura's pulsing threateningly, but there's no sign of the streaks of black I'd expect to see in case of an imminent attack. Hands on my hips, I lift my chin and stare right back at him. “Why? He's an _angel_. An angel who was gravely injured in a demonic attack. Any demonic presence could trigger a relapse.”

His head jerks back as if I'd slapped him. “You mean...” His eyes close in a grimace of pain. “You mean I could _harm_ him just by being near him?” When his eyes focus on me again, the hope in them is unmistakable.

Biting my lips, I nod. “I'm sorry. Believe me, it's for the best.”

Crossing his arms, he glances away, his jaw muscles clenching hard.

My thoughts whirring, I continue chewing my lips. If he's truly Aziraphale's friend, maybe... “Maybe you could help me out.”

At the mere suggestion, his lips curl into a sneer. “Why should I do that?”

I sigh. “Look, if it was _Aziraphale_ here asking for help, would you even hesitate?” As he presses his lips together, something twitches in his cheek. His expression only confirms my assumption. “Well, I'm asking you in his stead to help m– _him_ ,” I quickly correct myself.

He closes his eyes with a tired sigh. “What do you want?” His arms are still crossed, and he definitely sounds sullen, but still... I might have found an unexpected ally.

Patiently, I explain once again. “According to the theory of emotional attachment, being surrounded by personal items would tether his soul to the present and -”

“His soul?” His inner eyebrows pull into a sharp upwards angle. “What's wrong with his soul?”

Shaking my head _,_ I wave my hand in an attempt to metaphorically wipe away what I just said. “Nothing, sorry! I meant that some personal belongings might help him regain his consciousness. Something that appeals to the senses other than sight. Touch, or sound, or -”

“Smell?” There's an expression of intense concentration on his face.

“Yes. Do you have something in mind?”

“Chocolate.” The suggestion of a smile plays around his lips. “Hot chocolate, to be more precise. It's his comfort food... well, drink.”

I shake my head with an exasperated sigh. “I told you. He's in no state to eat or drink _anything_.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hence why I said _'smell'_. Do you have any idea how that stuff can fill a room?”

I blink. In the decades since my death I've become so used to think like an angel that the thought of food hadn't even occurred to me. _The smell of chocolate... That might actually work._ I open my mouth to say as much, but he's not done yet.

“It's really easy, too. All you need is some milk, cocoa, and sugar. He's got a favorite mug, and he likes to top it all off with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.” As his voice peters out, the tips of his ears turn red. “Although I suppose that doesn't matter right now.”

My lips twitch into an irrepressible smile, which I try to hide by covering my mouth. “I know how to make hot chocolate. Honestly, it's a great idea.”

The sudden murky brown tinge to his aura betrays his embarrassment. His eyes dart away. “Um, well...” He scratches at his left ear. “And I suppose there's always music.” I'm not sure if he's trying to change the topic or making another suggestion. Maybe both.

“Of course there's music. I know that much.” I've even played a few songs on the flute for him, although I'm out of practice, and it didn't seem to have any effect. “We _do_ have music in Heaven.”

The demon dismissively waves a hand. “Not... spherical harmonies, or whatever you guys are listening to. I mean _real_ music.” He jerks his thumb in direction of a bookshelf near the window.

When my eyes follow the gesture, they land on a well-cared-for gramophone on a small mahogany table, with a neat stack of records beside it. I walk over to take a closer look. A classic rendition of _Swan Lake_ rests on the turntable. After carefully placing the needle in a groove, I flip the switch, and the hauntingly beautiful music brightens the room. Of its own volition, a smile blossoms on my face. I pick up a few of the records on top of the stack. _The Magic Flute. Má vlast. The St Matthew Passion._ This is perfect. I took a risk in coming here, but it looks like it was fully worth it.

The demon's cough brings me back to the present. “Will that be enough? To bring him back?” Once again, his yellow eyes are trained on my face.

I give a quick nod. “I have every reason to hope so. After all, there are studies showing that classical music not only -”

“Yeah, well,” he interrupts me. “In that case, I'm outta here.” He turns to leave, then pauses as if another thought had just occurred to him. “If... um, if there's _any_ change...” Instead of continuing, he just stands there, staring at his hands as he's flexing his fingers.

I raise my eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Um, could you...” He's not even looking at me, but his profile is outlined clearly against the glow of the desk lamp. With his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath. Then he snaps his fingers again. For a moment, his right hand is engulfed in flames. When they flicker out, he's holding a small black card pinched between his index and middle finger. Though it looks like something between cardboard and plastic, it's probably made of some eldritch material. “If there's any change, could you give me a call?” His face twists, and almost as an afterthought he chokes out, “Please?”

He holds out the card, and I gingerly take it. Although warm to the touch and carrying a slight sulfuric smell, it's neither scorching my fingers nor leaving any soot marks. Contrasting sharply against the glossy black surface, silver letters spell out a very much Earthly cell phone number. I flip the card over to find _“Anthony J. Crowley”_ embossed on the other side. The demon's name, I presume. Or rather the version he uses when interacting with humans.

Before I can open my mouth to ask, the jingling door bell proclaims his departure. When I look up, all I see is the door falling shut behind him. Reflexively, I move to rush after him. Then I realize that in the unlikely event I have any further questions, he's just handed me the means to contact him. In the meantime, I'd better grab an armful of classic masterpieces.


	2. An Unholy Treatment

“This is a sacrilege.” Archangel Gabriel glowers at the record player I brought with me from Earth, currently filling the room with classical music that, to me, sounds like it was _meant_ to be played in Heaven.

“How can it be sacrilegious if it helps an angel recover from his wounds? Besides...” I hold up the record cover. “The piece is even _called_ _'Messiah'_. How could it be anything but holy? And please keep your voice down. This is a Healing ward, after all.” Right on cue, the background chorus begins chanting the ' _Hallelujah'_ section.

That takes the wind out of his wings. “Hmm, well, I suppose...” He wrinkles his nose. “At least the stench is gone.”

In truth, even though I stopped making hot chocolate days ago, faint traces of its sickly sweet smell are still hanging in the air. If the demon was telling the truth about my patient's tastes - something that became harder to believe the moment I was back in Heaven - that smell ought to have been strong enough to reach him even in the deepest of slumbers. And yet...

Gabriel's movement jerks me out of my musings. “What's that?”

When my eyes follow his, they land on a small black cardboard triangle peeking out among the more traditional _Get Well_ cards on my patient's bedside table. A lump of ice forms in my stomach. I took a risk leaving the demon's card out in the open, but hiding this token of my patient's unlikely friendship just didn't seem right. Still, I had hoped nobody would notice. There's a reason I haven't mentioned my encounter with the demon to anyone. If playing human music and drinking hot cocoa is enough to rile up the more traditional angels, I'd hate to see their reaction when they learn it was suggested by a demon. As if a good idea would become evil based on that alone.

Diving towards the bedside table, I manage to pluck out the card before Gabriel can reach for it. Taking care to cover part of the name with my thumb, I hold it up for him to see. “It's, um, a calling card left by one of Aziraphale's friends.” _Not a lie_ , I tell myself, _just a deflection_. “I thought it might make him feel better to know someone's thinking of him. Other than us, I mean.”

“ _Anthony_...” Gabriel reads out loud. “A human friend?” Straightening up, he shakes his head. “Well, I suppose it could have been worse.”

Desperate to change the topic, I launch into a detailed report on how my patient's health has been improving since Gabriel's previous visit. His temperature has increased to a value approaching normal, something like color has returned to his cheeks, and he's also breathing in a more regular rhythm. There's just one problem: He still hasn't regained his consciousness.

Once Gabriel has left, I once again check my patient's status, knowing full well that it won't have changed. His wounds are healing cleanly, and his aura, though still not nearly as bright as it ought to be for an angel in Heaven, isn't showing the sickly green specks that would be the sure signs of poisoning. There must be something I'm missing. But what?

The demon's calling card is drawing my gaze. Sighing, I turn it over and over in my hands. _Asking a demon for help? Really?_ Another glance at my unresponsive patient spurs me onward. After all, what's the worst that could happen?

I switch off the record player, ready my pen and clipboard, take a deep breath, and dial the number.

He picks up on the second ring. “Crowley?” Somehow, he manages to sound wary and bored at the same time.

“Hello, this is Makawee, the Healer who -”

“Yes.” No trace of boredom in his voice anymore, he almost hisses the word. “How's he? Did he wake up?”

“I'm sorry, no. He's stable, though.”

“Dead's stable.” His dark chuckle might point to a morbid sense of humor, but there's a certain edge to his voice that tells me he's deeply worried.

I hasten to reassure him. “Oh, Heavens, no! Nonono, I'm sorry!” I catch myself making shushing motions with my hands before I realize he can't actually see me. “No, he's fine. Well, not _completely_ fine, but much better than he was before.”

His sigh of relief is audible even through the phone.

“Anyway... uh, _Crowley_ , was it?” His only response is a non-committal grunt. “You were there the night he was attacked. Right?” When he doesn't respond, I simply press on. “Do you know what happened?”

“A demonic attack, that's what happened. I thought that was obvious.”

“Well, yes. But why? Was he a victim by chance, or did they pick him on purpose?”

He stays silent for a long time. Then, carefully, “There aren't a whole lot of angels currently living on Earth.” _No, just the one, I bet._ But that didn't answer the question.

“Did you try -”

“Of course I did!” His voice twists in pain. Pain, and something else I can't quite place. “But four against two, we hardly stood a chance.”

 _We?_ Out loud I say, “Oh. Did they hurt you, too?”

“No worse than I them. Not physically.” There's another pause. Then, his voice dropping to a whisper, he continues, “But that wasn't the point.”

 _Guilt_ , that's the other one. I blink, trying to process this. _Pain and guilt._ Yet he's saying he was _protecting_ his friend, and for some reason I tend to believe him. “But why would they -”

“Was there a reason you called me?” I can almost feel the heat of the glare accompanying these words. He sounds like he's seconds from hanging up on me.

“Uh, yes, sorry. Um, could you by any chance give me some information about the demons who attacked him?”

“Do you seriously expect me to rat out my fellow demons?”

I bite my lips. From what I've heard he's got no reason to defend them, but I suppose demons can get in trouble with Hell, too. “Not even if it helps your friend?”

A long sigh. Then, while I'm still trying to come up with a more convincing argument, he starts rattling down some names.

Jamming the phone between chin and shoulder, I hasten to write everything down, but it's impossible to keep up. “I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Could you repeat, please? A bit more slowly, this time?”

He huffs in annoyance but, after a short pause, repeats his answer at a much slower pace.

Though I dutifully take notes, doing my best to guess at the spelling, none of the names sound at all familiar. “Uh, thank you. Are any of them Archdemons, by any chance?”

“No.” I wait until he continues, “No, none of them are Archdemons.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. The highest ranking one's a Duke of Hell.”

Another glance at my patient. No, I think I would have noticed even a Duke's lasting signature in my patient's bloodstream and aura. I tap my lips thoughtfully. “Do any of them have unusual powers? Beyond Hellfire, I mean?” The burns were obvious, after all, even if difficult to treat.

“Why?” Once again, his tone's guarded, which I suppose is understandable considering that his giving information to an angel might be considered treason in certain circles of Hell.

“I'm wondering if any of them might have been able to deal wounds that damage the soul. Some kind of venom maybe? A curse?” I bite my lips. “Honestly, I imagine you would know more about that than me.”

“What do you mean, 'damage the soul'?” His urgent tone brings to mind his harried look back in the bookshop, his wide yellow eyes trained on mine.

“Look, I'm doing my best here, but for some reason he's still fast asleep. All I'm trying to do is understand why, so I can _help_ him.”

Another pained sigh. “No. No specials powers that I'm aware of.” He clucks his tongue. “One of them's covered in festering sores, though. Not sure if that makes any difference.”

“I guess that explains...” I trail off. There's no need to mention his friend's severe bacterial infection when he was brought in.

“What?”

“Never mind. He was in a pretty bad shape when he arrived, but I managed to get it out of his system.”

“Oh. That's... that's good, isn't it?”

“Yes.” But I'm still no closer to solving this mystery. When I catch myself gnawing at my thumbnail, I clench my fist to stop myself from doing it.

He finally breaks the pause. “Listen.” I can actually hear him swallow. “Is there... I don't suppose there's any way I could _see_ him?” The pain in his voice tugs at my heartstrings. “Just see him. I promise I won't get close enough to hurt him. _Please._ ”

I hesitate. I suppose I could send him a photo or a short video, but... who knows what a demon could do with even a _picture_ of Heaven. Besides, I know what he's really asking is for his friend to be transferred back to Earth. But in his current state, moving Aziraphale is completely out of the question. Still, my career in health service has taught me that sometimes I have to consider my patients' next-of-kin, too. I take a deep breath. “Would you like to talk to him?” As long as the distance is kept, surely there's no harm.

“What? He... what?”

“Well, he wouldn't actually be able to answer, of course, but I could hold the phone to his ear, and you could say something.”

“But... but you'd listen in.”

I roll my eyes. “Not intentionally. But I'm the one holding the phone, so yes, it's unavoidable I might catch bits and pieces.” I sigh. “Look, you don't have to. It was just an idea.”

“No! I mean, yes. I want to talk to him.”

“All right, give me a minute.” I walk over to the bed and sit down in the visitor's chair. “Okay, go ahead.” I hold the phone close to my patient's ear and wait.

There's silence, followed by the demon's voice, lower and more muffled now, but still understandable. _“Um, hi, Aziraphale.”_

I'm trying to tune out the one-sided conversation when a flicker of light catches my attention. I blink reflexively. _Did I just imagine that?_ Swallowing, I force myself to relax my gaze.

“ _It's me... um, Crowley.”_

There it is again. Aziraphale's aura pulses in response, glowing noticeably brighter while the demon's speaking. Heart hammering, I sit up straight.

“ _I... I don't know if you can hear me, but you... you have to get better.”_

Again, the sickly blue glow flares into a brighter, healthier hue. Hardly daring to breathe, I lean forwards in the chair, now fully focused on my patient's aura.

“ _Do you hear me? You_ have _to.”_

Another echoing pulse. I've never seen anything like this. He's never shown any reaction at all when _I_ talked to him, or any of his rare visitors.

“ _I need you to get better! I...”_ The demon trails off after that, but after a long pause, another answering flicker in Aziraphale's aura tells me that the demon must have said something else, too low for me to hear.

This is incredible. If this is how he responds to merely hearing his friend's voice, distorted as it is through a phone call from Earth, or possibly Hell, all the way up to Heaven, I can't help wondering what would happen if they were actually in the same room.

I yank the phone back to my ear. “Uh, listen! Um, are you still there?”

“Yes?” He sounds wary. Maybe he's expecting me to mock him for anything he might have said. As if an angel would ever disapprove of friendship and love.

My excitement propels me out of the chair, and I start pacing the room. “I... I think he _heard_ you.” He gasps, and I quickly press on. “I'm not sure if he actually _understood_ anything you said, but his soul definitely responded to your voice.”

“Wha-? How?” There's a short pause, then, “What does that mean?”

“It means he's still in there.” My voice positively jubilates. It's only now when I say it that I realize that I'd begun to harbor doubts about this.

I cast another glance at my patient. While his aura has returned to its regular wave pattern, unless I'm fooling myself, it's still a bit brighter than it had been this morning. An idea has lodged itself in my head, though the risk involved makes my stomach churn. After all, I might be about to commit the biggest mistake of my entire existence, worse even than getting into a car with a driver who turned out to be drunk.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and visualize my patient's aura shining in bright, healthy colors. Visualize him waking up. Surely, that would be worth a bit of a risk. Right?

I lick my lips and take another deep breath. “You said you wanted to see him?”

“Yesss!” This time, there's no mistaking the hiss in his voice, though it sounds far more hopeful than I would ever have expected to hear from a demon.

This runs completely counter to any established protocol, but I took an oath a long time ago. Even dying and being reborn as an angel doesn't absolve me of my Healer's oath. And they _did_ give me full reign over my ward, which means it's fully in my powers to invite a visitor. Although I'm sure it never occurred to anyone that I might try to invite someone from Hell. “Mind, you'd only be allowed in the Healing ward,” I caution. “You won't be able to enter any other part of Heaven.”

“I don't care.”

“And you must come alone. Don't even _try_ smuggling in another demon. No animals. And certainly no weapons.”

“Fuck, yes, all right. Whatever you say, I promise.”

I take another breath. “I'll pick you up at six in front of the bookshop.”

“Okay.” He hangs up without so much as a good-bye. Maybe he's worried I might change my mind.

In theory, I ought to consult with the Heavenly council before taking such a drastic decision, but the bureaucracy up here's not all that different from the one I remember from my days in human healthcare. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes it pays to act now and ask for forgiveness later. These are angels, after all. Surely, they'll find it within themselves to forgive me for showing compassion.

~ * ~ * ~

A distant clock strikes six when I materialize in an alley near the shop. Within seconds, a tall, dark shape dissolves from the shadows.

“About bloody time.” Despite the rapidly approaching darkness, a pair of black sunglasses is covering the demon's reptilian eyes. He's still dressed casually, head to toes in black leather, but he's groomed his hair, which makes him look more composed than the last time I saw him. What draws my eyes, though, is the small potted plant with large silver-veined leaves that he's clutching to his chest. I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

“You said no animals,” he says defensively. “There are no animals in here. I made sure of that.” He juts out his chin. “And it's not poisonous, either.”

Most angels have never even heard of the custom of bringing flowers when visiting someone's sickbed. So I'm surprised that a demon would have the foresight to bring something that, even if completely devoid of any bloom, is still the epitome of life. It's a nice gesture, and as long as it's neither toxic nor flesh-eating, I'm not going to try to dissuade him from bringing a gift.

Instead, I lay down the rules once more. “Remember, you're to stay within the ward at all times. If you so much as try to stray outside, I'll have you kicked back to Hell before you can even _think_ of saying, 'I'm sorry.'” Which he probably wouldn't do, in any case.

He grits his teeth. “I already agreed, didn't I?”

Ignoring this, I continue, “And I know you want to see your friend, but you'll _have_ to keep your distance. My ward, my rules.” I keep my eyebrows raised expectantly until he finally nods, his jaw clenched. And finally, for the hardest part. I swallow. Inhale. Exhale. “Look, you're a demon, so I'm not taking any chances. I'll have to bind your powers for the duration of your visit to Heaven.”

The demon flinches back reflexively. “Hell, no!” This is followed by a string of blasphemous insults, which I strive to ignore. After all, judging by the muddy blue blotches sprouting all over his aura, this is fear talking.

I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner. “Don't worry. I swear you'll get them back when you leave.” I place a hand on my chest. “On my honor as an angel and a Healer.”

One of his hands clenches around the flower pot, the other balled to a fist by his side. “Why should I trust you?” His canines gleam in the evening light.

As if I have any reason to trust _him_. “You know as well as I do that an angel's word means more than the oath of a demon.” He opens his mouth, and I lift a hand to stall his objections. “Now maybe you're different, but I'm not going to risk the sanctity of Heaven on a 'maybe'.” He closes his mouth without saying anything, and I smoothly continue, “That's my offer. You can take it, or leave.”

His face twists, his carotid artery throbbing in his neck. His eyes are hidden by the tinted glasses, but I'm sure they're wide with fear. Seconds tick by, during which I anxiously await his response. Finally, licking his lips, he gives another curt nod.

Other than tense up even further, he doesn't so much as twitch when I perform the necessary ritual, though I'm sure he's keeping a close watch on my every move. If the roles were reversed, I don't think I'd have the guts to throw myself at a demon's mercy and enter Hell in such a vulnerable state. Honestly, the very fact that he cares enough about his friend to agree to even a short-term suspension of his powers tells me I'm doing the right thing.

Finally, with a practiced gesture I draw a circle of light onto the cobblestones and step inside. When I hold out my hand towards the demon, he responds by raising his upper lip into half of a snarl. For his friend's sake, he may trust me with his powers, but clearly, this unlikely friendship doesn't extend to angels in general. I quirk a smile. “Look, I don't like it, either. But otherwise, you won't be able to enter.” I flex my hand invitingly.

He wrinkles his nose, but after a short pause, as predicted, he reaches out to take my hand. This close, I catch a whiff of sleek leather and expensive cologne. Though his hand feels hot to the touch, the initial burning sensation passes, and I hold on tightly as I transport us to Heaven.

No sooner have we arrived in the ward than the demon yanks back his hand. It joins the other one still curled possessively around his potted plant, that he's now holding in front of him like some kind of shield. Not that he could hide here even if he tried. His black leather outfit alone contrasts glaringly against Heaven's soft pastel colors. He's craning his neck to look along either side of the near infinite corridor. I try to see the place through a demon's eyes, but it's an impossible task. The gleaming white floor. Bright Heavenly light pouring in from the windowless walls and ceilings. The corridor stretching on into infinity with hundreds of ivory doors on either side, all very much alike.

The entire ward had been erected with Apocalyptic casualties in mind, but presently, there's only a single door whose engraved pair of angels' wings is glowing golden, and it's right in front of us. At the touch of my palm, the door silently slides aside and the lively tones of Vivaldi's _Summer_ filter into the corridor. My patient's still sleeping peacefully, his aura outlining him in a weak blue glow.

The demon knits his brows. “Is he -” As he stares at his friend, his teeth worry his lower lip.

“Sleeping,” I interject hastily, stepping through the door and turning down the music with a flick of the hand. “Come on in.” I turn towards my patient, putting on a bright smile and a voice to match. “Look, Aziraphale. You've got a visitor.” There's no response. Of course there isn't. Not for me.

When I glance around expectantly, the demon's still standing on the invisible line marking the entrance threshold, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. His brows are furrowed. “Can he hear us?” Despite the demon's hushed tone, my patient's aura once again flickers in response.

“He can hear _you_ , at least.”

One eyebrow lifts into a skeptical frown. “How can you tell?”

There's another answering pulse that, evidently, the demon doesn't notice. Even among angels, I know I'm the exception rather than the norm. “I can read his aura. You can come closer, you know.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Are you sure? I don't... I don't want to risk...” He trails off, but the words _“harming him”_ hang in the air.

I smile encouragingly. “I'm sure.”

Though he cautiously moves closer, he keeps his head cocked in a way that tells me he's watching my every reaction. When he stops a few feet from his friend's bed, he awkwardly clears his throat. “Um, hey, angel. It's me. Um, how are you?”

My patient's aura flares up yet again, its brightness lingering for a few seconds after the demon has fallen quiet. This is exactly what I'd hoped for, yet I shake my head in disbelief. Apparently having seen my reaction and drawing his own conclusions, the demon jerks back and hastily retreats another foot or two.

I lift my hands in a calming gesture. “No, it's okay. He's responding positively.” Smiling, I take the potted plant from the demon's unresisting hands and place it on the bedside table. “Go on, you can touch him. It's safe, I promise.”

“But... but you said...”

I press my lips together in an apologetic smile. “I was _wrong_.”

“Oh.” Once again, he bites his lips. Then, nodding thoughtfully, he straightens up. Rather than rush forward as I'd expected, he approaches the bed cautiously, as if expecting me to call him back at any moment. Ignoring the visitor's chair, he carefully sits down on the edge of the bed, placing his left hand on Aziraphale's, while using the other to brush a clammy forelock from his friend's brow. “Hey, angel.”

In response both to the touch and address, my patient's aura flares up with a luminosity that comes close to what I'd expect to see in someone healthy. I had hoped that the demon's visit would have this effect, but it sure is a relief to actually see it. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. When I open them again, they widen in surprise before I can even consciously process what I'm seeing. What I had no reason to expect, but what's happening right in front of my eyes, is that the demon's dark red aura is also getting brighter, causing it to momentarily lose its muddy hue. It's almost like, when close to his angelic friend, he momentarily becomes less demonic.

The demon continues talking to his friend, while I just watch in amazement. When he leans closer, their two auras overlap and mix into a rich purple hue, occasionally shifting into bright pink. This time, when I shake my head, the demon, entirely focused on his friend, doesn't pay me any heed. I wonder what kind of connection they might share, although I suppose it doesn't matter. Whether it's platonic or romantic, I recognize love when I see it. That's where I had gone wrong, assuming that only _God's_ love could heal an angel.

I quietly nod to myself, certain now that I've made the right decision. What I'm seeing here has given me all the ammunition I might need to defend my decision in front of the Heavenly council, should it come to that.


	3. The Awakening

I knock, waiting for a response that never comes, and then open the door anyway. No matter how often I do this, I still feel like an intruder. I never did house calls when I was alive, but even if the patient himself was too sick to leave their bed, I'd have expected another person to open the door for me. The bookshop downstairs is closed, of course, so I've given up on ringing the bell and just let myself in. But up here, it's different. This is my patient's personal living space, and it feels wrong to just barge right in.

As usually, I'm greeted by the now familiar sight of the demon, lounging in a chintz armchair by my patient's bed, and the soothing sound of his voice. Ever since I've moved my patient back to his London residence, the demon's taken to read out loud from a number of books, adding to an untidy stack on his friend's bed stand next to the silver-veined plant. The crisp smell of fresh linen and the demon's spicy scent tickle my nostrils. And all the while, my patient's aura's humming in harmony with the demon's voice.

When I enter, the demon briefly interrupts his reading for a quick glance around, just enough to verify that I'm not a threat. I nod a greeting that, as always, he doesn't return, instead refocusing his attention back on his friend and the book in his hands. After clearing his throat, he continues reading right where he'd left off, from what I recognize as _“A Tale of Two Cities.”_

I don't know what I'd expected, really. A _thank you_ would have been nice. But clearly, this grudging tolerance of my presence, born out of sheer necessity, is all I'm going to get. Yes, I decided to confess to the Heavenly council, but they were bound to find out anyway. And yes, this meant he wasn't allowed into Heaven anymore, but how can he blame me for that when he wasn't supposed to be there at all?

Of course the Heavenly council wouldn't approve of my inviting a demon to Heaven. Some of the Archangels – Gabriel included – even accused me of treachery, but fortunately, most of them were in a more forgiving mood, so they let me get away with a warning and a ton of paperwork. It only took a few days for the council to reach this decision, but that was enough for Aziraphale to slide back on his road to recovery. Having seen the alternative, I realized that in keeping his demonic friend away from him, I would be dealing harm to my patient. Moving him back to Earth was the only option I _could_ take.

Ever since, my patient's health has seen a marked improvement. His skin tone, breathing, and aura now all resemble those of someone sleeping rather than someone close to death. I've already observed the occasional twitching muscle, and even as I'm watching now, his eyes are moving under their closed lids. In all likelihood, it's only a matter of hours now until he'll finally regain his consciousness. By rights, I should be taking his temperature, record his pulse and breathing intervals, but right now, the demon's doing a far better nursing job than I ever could. So I just lean against the door frame, listen, watch, and wait.

I notice the twitch in my patient's fingers before the demon does, who's still completely focused on his reading out loud. A soft smile dawns on Aziraphale's face, and pink spots crop up in his cheeks and all over his aura. His eyelids flutter, and when they evidently prove too heavy, he contends himself with groping blindly for the demon's hand dangling off the armrest. “Crowley...” he whispers.

In one rapid movement, the demon uncoils from his seating position, jumping to his feet and dropping the book in the process. “You're alive! I mean, awake. You're awake!”

Eyes now half opened, my patient merely smiles at him.

The demon lays a hand against his friend's brow. “How are you feeling, angel?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Tired...” His voice sounds hoarse and weary. “'m glad you're here.”

“Of course I'm here.” The brightness in the demon's tone and aura make me picture him wearing a wide grin. “Even Heaven couldn't keep me out.”

“What d'you mean?”

“They let me visit you. In _Heaven_.”

There's a tired chuckle from Aziraphale. After a short pause, he sighs. “No, they didn't.”

I decide to step in. “It's true.”

Startled, my patient turns his head, his wide blue eyes meeting mine. I give a friendly little wave. Frowning, he takes in my white Healer's robe and the gold markings near my eyes. I'm about to introduce myself when his gaze flickers back to the demon, who shrugs and nods.

Aziraphale blinks. “Oh. How... What happened?” His gaze is firmly fixed on the demon now, not me.

The demon sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning down towards his friend. “Well, do you remember those demons attacking you?”

Their conversation continues entirely without me. In fact, they appear to have forgotten I even exist, so I retreat from the room and carefully close the door behind me. As far as I can tell, my patient's well on his way to a full recovery. I'll have to examine him more thoroughly later, check his reflexes and angelic powers. He'll probably have questions, too. But all that can wait. Right now, he's in the safe hands of the most unlikely nursing staff imaginable, and that's all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> So... what did you think? Was there anything you particularly liked or disliked?
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this story, you might also want to check out my other (Good Omens) stories, too. :)


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